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Masquerade for Money
by Lina Aissa This story is of a woman who thought she could trick the whole world. A woman whose life was a deeply buried secret that she shared with one and only one person, not voluntarily, but only because that person was forced into her life. She was certain that her daughter would never betray her or divulge what her mother had hidden for years. She knew that her daughter was smarter than to blab their confidence. The mother always said “Whenever someone asks you about our situation, tell them that we are poor and needy and that your mom has no job. We starve and we shiver from cold and our clothes are shredded and full of holes.”Every time, the child gawked without understanding, but never asked why-“Why are you lying mum? Why aren’t you telling the truth?” She nodded because she knew she had to. See, it is quite impossible to convince someone that they are not whom they think they are. It would obviously lead to the conclusion that one of you is mad- seriously brain damaged- and that one is surely you. The mother woke up in the early morning to wait for the milkman on his rusty motorcycle rumbling from far away. Every window in the small neighborhood opened. Children scurried towards the milkman with their saucepans, empty bottles, and large mugs and surrounded him like a clowder. Furious mothers scolded their children for not filling their bottles first and yelled at the man for his preference of one over the other. With the whole neighborhood coming out from every corner, she rather preferred to remain inside and wait for the man to knock on her door, at last. She put on her rugged bathrobe and covered her hair with a loose scarf and drew a fake smile on her face. “I hope you saved me some good milk, son” she said in a low tone. She washed her face with tepid water and take a deep, reflective look over her face in the mirror- somehow the flesh in it was of no flexibility; as it was dangling from her bones. She gave it a try once, twice, and over and over again smoothed her cheeks and widened her eyes with her fingers until she surrendered to her misfortune and gave a loud, desperate sigh. Drying her face with a towel was definitely her favorite part; as she managed to do it quickly so as not to perceive her reflection in the mirror. She sat alone at her large round crimson mahogany dinner table with two spindly arm chairs, put her cup of coffee, her neatly-cut toasts, her honey and butter, a large chocolate cake, a bottle of mango and papaya juice (her favorite), and sizzling sausages on top of the table and rubbing her eyes, she kept staring out of the window. She tried so hard to escape the emptiness and the silence of the morning. She kept staring, drowsing and growing sleepy until the coffee turned cold and took two or three sips of her now muddy coffee and nibbled a buttered toast. Mornings could be very dull and the gray clouds accentuated the dreary atmosphere. After a long time resting her head on her arms, she suddenly realized that it would rain soon and that she needed to pull off the laundry. She ran upstairs, enveloped in her warm, thick wool bathrobe and twitched the laundry that hung on a wire, covering her forehead with her hand. The moment she reached the door leading to the stairs, a giggle jutted out of her throat in a way she could not oppress. The gentle rain gave her a feeling of warmth and pleasure. Coming down stairs and carrying her basket full of semi-wet clothes, she started calling her daughter to get ready for school. On the last stair, she watched her heaving her backpack on her shoulder and jostling the walls stealthily towards the door. She immediately followed her for the daily inspection-after all little twelve-year-old girls are not to be granted full trust. “BYE, MOM” She said in a hasty voice, eyes slanted towards the giant oak front door. Before she could even reach the door lock with her hand, she sensed a firm grip pulling her back into the house. Little Sanae spotted a crazy look in her mother’s eyes. There was a wicked twinkle in them; a fury that only her daughter could recognize while other people would have mistaken it with a look of jouissance. Her mother squinted her eyes, giving her the feeling of being enclosed in a stifling hot box and put under the fervent light of a giant bulb. The little girl sobbed. “I see you are crying. Now open that backpack.” She wiped her eyes with her old shirt sleeve. Her mother held her jaw so tight in her hand and smirked while her daughter was still muttering the same words, then she locked her in and turned to her daughter: “You are not leaving this house. Go back to your room, you little thief.” “NO, MOM, PLEASE, NO. YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. I HAVE AN EXAM TODAY.” She begged and begged, tears dripping out her face. She fell on her feet and hung on her mother’s legs. “I TOLD THEM AT SCHOOL THAT I HAVE ONE TOO, BUT THEY DIDN’T BELIEVE ME. SO, I THOUGHT I SHOULD SHOW THEM. THEY CALLED ME A LIAR.” “I don’t care. I thought we had an agreement. Whatever you find in this house stays in this house. I hope you learn from this.” She detached her leg from her daughter’s hands and disappeared. On the floor, the daughter cried and cried and then sat erectly in silence until her tears dried. “I will never do it again” she told herself in a low whisper. The next morning her mother spoke to her like they were the closest friends in the world. It was frightening the way she changed. When she wakes up, I find her in a large silky robe with her hair down, a pair of new slippers, a shiny gold ring in her right hand and a thick gold bracelet in her left one. She looks so pretty and I cannot take my eyes off her. But, then she goes to work- the way she calls it- and decides to play her masquerade. How scared I was whenever I saw her final transformation. It’s like people were blind not to see the real her. Who could be fooled by such a false appearance? I wasn’t. But then not everybody lived under the same roof as her. I saw her put the filthy scarf on her neatly brushed silky hair that covered her gold earrings, her large gray rugged djellaba, and a pair of booties that looked inherited from her great-grandmother. I never knew what to say to her. So many ideas were bursting in my head. I never knew why we had to live in such a big lie and conceal our real life. So many secrets enclosed inside those walls, they could fall down! She told me when I was very young that she had to beg in order to buy us food. But what I discovered later was that she had begged for so long that she could start giving instead of taking. She couldn’t stop. One day, she was very tired but in a ludicrously and extremely rare good mood, and decided to confess to me. I was her secret keeper. She said that she was ill and her illness was money. She became addicted after all these years of having to roam the crowded streets, twitching people from their sleeves, giving this one a look of sorrow, the other a look of searing pain, lying about her hungry children left at home, and squirming on the floor for her dying girl in destitute for medicine. She sat for hours at the doors of mosques waiting for people to extend their hand and drop a dirham. People gave her food, dry bread, soup, sometimes couscous, a bit of meat and as soon as she turned the corner, she tossed the bags in the dump. They gave her clothes, but didn’t know she wore far better than they can afford. She said she was sick of the looks people threw her. She wanted to tell them that she had more than they had. If only they knew! She found herself a spot for long years and she needed to safeguard it. She knew her disguise was worth keeping. She always bought me the best clothes, but forbade me to wear them outside. I wondered what the aim of them was after all, if I had to walk the streets head down, avoiding the penetrating stares and the humiliating comments. “Look at that poor little girl. Isn’t she the beggar’s little daughter? Oh, poor little twisted creature!” they would say. And for a long time I loathed her for that. She was responsible for everything people told me- she was responsible for the looks they gave me. She is a very good woman- a poor woman, yes, but a willing one. She goes to work every day. I don’t know where, but I see her depart every morning carrying her sacoche, even on cold rainy days, shrouded in filthy old clothes. I tried so many times to talk to her. I greet her and she only nods. We, women of the neighborhood think that she is deaf. Poor thing! Poverty and handicap, what a life! What a destiny! We often give her clothes, but somehow she never wears them. We knock on her door and she opens a narrow gap for her hand to protrude from it. All what we can see is her eyes rolling in the dark. I wonder if she ever eats the food we give her. Indeed, a strange woman she is! After thinking about it, I don’t even know her name! The two residents of the house were inclined to isolation, mainly coerced by the mother, who thought it better to keep people at bay. People can be very nosy. A “Hello” soon develops into a “How are you doing?” that after a while will be “How much do you earn per month?” She did not admit herself to be the reason for their exile. Instead, she blamed the odd location of the house for detaching them from the rest of the neighborhood. They never had guests under any circumstances- they never been ill, the house never caught fire, and nobody died. They never knew how it felt like to be around people with no mask on. Surely, one day all will be revealed, but she could not tolerate that very idea. They say everything happens for a reason and that no matter how much one fights to change the turns of things, they will eventually happen the way they were meant to. It is all written in “the stars”- the term stars probably seems cheesy and lame in such a problematic context. We live to the fullest and forget what is important. What we forget is that we are nothing but infinitesimal organisms with an ego as big as earth itself. We think big, we dream big, but we are still nothing. Looking from the top, one can see a fourmilière; people running all over the place like headless chicken, some fighting, some working, some stealing, others begging. She thought nobody would ever know. She thought if they lived in pure concealment, she could enjoy her sybaritism in peace. But, alas, life is full of ups and downs. Little Sanae grew into a beautiful young woman to be married. The bride-to-be wanted to have a proper wedding like normal people, but feared her mother would refuse the idea of letting other people in their life and locking her in the way she did years ago. How relieved she was hearing from her mom that she would help her prepare after she was certain that the groom and his family came from a distant city. Her heart melted with joy, when she saw her mother sweeping, dusting, and decorating in a way she never done before. We mounted the staircase. We kept on climbing stair after stair of marble covered with a long red runner rug and held tightly on the golden banister from our immense shock. On the sculptured ceiling a tremendous spiral crystal chandelier dangled in the center of the house and cast light on every corner of the room. The walls were made of a deep blue mosaic festooned with large silk carpets. Hand knotted Moroccan tapestry of different patterns and colors covered the entire floor of the house. Luxurious furniture was carefully placed in every corner; gleaming dark wood armoires, light oak wood dressers, and long sofas with Andalusian hand carving on them and scattered throw pillows on the floor next to velvet poufs. Easels displaying pottery vases and plates, crystal glasses and jars, a blue and white porcelain china set was magnetically captivating the eye. We sat on the high wool sofas of the best fabric we have ever touched with our feet raised above the floor and our jaws dropped. We were not invited, but hearing the music and laughter we decided to have a look and we did absolutely not regret it. All the people in the room were astonished; reality struck them. Who would have thought that the poor beggar lived in a palace? How did she get all this stuff inside without anyone noticing? How did she keep this secret for years and get away with it? How didn’t we suspect her? How stupid we were! She fooled us all for long years! |
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